Page 1 of Shade
I haven’t slept in two days.
Forty-eight hours and counting.
Do you see that guy sitting on the couch? The one with the badass body ink and sighing every other breath? That’s me. The asshole who hasn’t slept in two days. My clothes are wrinkled, hair all over the place, but it’s obvious in my bloodshot eyes. You’re probably thinking, I need some sleep. I do. I just can’t allow myself that luxury.
Not sleeping. . . that’s not unheard of for me. Believe it or not, I once went eighty-two hours with no sleep and then crashed in my kitchen on the floor next to the fridge. Curled up next to a gallon of milk and a bowl of Captain Crunch I slept.
By the way, just so we’re clear here, I don’t recommend going eighty-two hours without sleep. It fucks with your head and weakens your ability to decipher right from wrong.
Unfortunately, now that I’m going on a couple days with no sleep, I know where this is taking me. I’m becoming irrational. Hasty. Out of control with anger at onegirlwho refuses to answer my calls. It fucking pisses me off when people ignore me, and I really hate being this guy. The worst part is sheknowsthis about me, and she’s still pulling this shit.
Willa, my PR assistant, stands beside me, handing me my ringing phone. It’s always fucking ringing, and usually, I don’t answer. She does. But not this time. She knows who it is and she knows this is a call only I take.
Sighing, she shrugs when my eyes move to her, then to the screen flashing with Rhya’s number. “You have to be at the airport in two hours,” Willa reminds me. “You don’t have time for this today.”
Take a look at Willa’s face. Can you see the concern? The apprehension? The one that slightly resembles a mother warning her teenage son not to drive her car when she’s at work and knowing he totally will. This look, it’s Willa’s warning that maybe this time Ishouldn’ttake the call. In fact, IknowI shouldn’t, but I’ve never not taken her call. The truth is I’m afraid if I don’t, Rhya will do something bad.
I don’t say anything after I slide my finger across the screen and then press the phone to my ear, silence stretching further apart than the distance between us.
Why don’t I say anything? Rhya knows it’s me. And we both know she’s not calling to see howI’mdoing. No, it’s never about me. It’s always abouther.
“Hey. . . ,” she finally says after a few seconds of unbearable silence. Her breathing’s low and drawn out, the word slurred through a sigh, and it confirms my theories as towhyI couldn’t get a hold of her. “Why’d you call me so many times?”
Every time she calls—and I hear that familiar slur to her voice—I think to myself, not again You’d also think having known her my entire life, I’d be happy to hear from Rhya, like I am when any good friend calls.
But I’m not. I won’t ever be. The only relief I get from hearing Rhya’s voice is the confirmation she’s alive.
I have two friends I’ve known my entire life. Rhya and Auden. I’d do anything for either of them and that—and only that—is the reason I even bother, despite knowing where this is going. I’m loyal if nothing else.
I blow out a heavy breath. It’s my automatic response anytime I hear her voice.
The last time I heard from her was a month ago when I sent her to a very expensive rehab center in Malibu for thesecondtime. She got out this morning, and word from Auden was Gage—her drug dealer—had already paid her a visit.
Knowing this, I tried calling her twenty-three times this morning with no answer. Until now when she finally returns the call.
It’s about fucking time.
“Shade?” she asks when I don’t reply.
Weakness claws at me. I hate the way she controls me. It goes against everything I am to not be the one in control. I fuckingdespiseit.
You know that feeling when you take Vicodin, and you can barely function and it takes over all your senses, and you’re left in a relaxed jelly state despite wishing you could still control yourself? Maybe it’s just me, but Vicodin does that to me. I once pissed myself when I took them. Now I steer clear of the stuff. And given I’m constantly injured from my profession or in need of something stronger to take the edge off all these broken bones I’ve had to nurse over the last year, it’s hard to stay away from the little white piss-pants-inducing pills.
My point here? Rhya makes me feel like I’m on Vicodin. Except with Rhya, instead of a relaxed jelly state, I’m left in complete misery. Constantly. She has that ability to render me completely incapable, and I might not ever understand why.
“Yeah,” I finally say.
My brain is yelling for me to scream at her. It’s telling me to shout at her and demand she tell me why the fuck couldn’t she pick up the damn phone when I called earlier? Why the hell was Gage at her apartment within hours of her being released from rehab?
I don’t though. I never do.
It’s not weakness that keeps me from losing it on her, although that’s definitely a factor. No, it’s because I can already tell the frame of mind she’s in when she speaks, and it doesn’t take but a minute to decipher by her tone she’s high again.
I learned a long time ago that saying anything at this point is just a waste of time, and I’m tired of wasting my goddamn time with her.
I’m the best freestyle motocross racer in the world, so they tell me.
All right, I’ll admit it. IknowI am.
